


cryogenic prophets

by elektra



Category: Bleach
Genre: Established Relationship, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Ulquiorra, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra/pseuds/elektra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>their breath tastes more and more like gracefully pulled down surgical masks, and it perplexes him as to why they come here of their own volition, to smell the formaldehyde and bury themselves into the cavity of some cadaver's chest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	cryogenic prophets

they kiss him as though they’ve somewhere to be, as though they still stand before the throne of god, as though they’ve someone to impress for being as statuesque as possible. it’s a point of moot consideration that they don’t kiss him at all, rather they take and take and take _and take_ , as they’re wont to do on all accounts. the ink well of their lips doesn’t return the notion or spit it back into his face like the skittish retching of a morphing apex predator overprotective of its dangling limbs. he’s half glad for it, half disgusted.

their breath tastes more and more like gracefully pulled down surgical masks, and it perplexes him as to why they come here of their own volition, to smell the formaldehyde and bury themselves into the cavity of some cadaver’s chest? are their lips coated in poison each time and if they’re to move against him, the fantastically comical green droplets would go on their own tongue? poison is sweet, like carnations placed at the edge of a casket and wrapped around the horns of prophets (if he was to believe any of that bullshit – he knew better, he learned better, he’ll hide it because everyone fears the wrath of a pseudogod in one way or another).

“my pretty bernini,”

his breath is smoke along the plains of their cheek, as if sculpted by harsh tools to create the ridge of their cheekbones perfectly suited to the shape of his lips and his minute, meaningless inflections. they don’t understand it; the conceptual, the embodiment, anything else than servitude and blood altars.

“my pretty, pretty bernini.”


End file.
